Batman: GSU
by ThuggJokR
Summary: Bruce Wayne, in order to inherit his parents' company, must attend Gotham State University, where he makes his first friends, first enemies, and his ultimate identity as the Batman.
1. Chapter 1 Where All Your Journeys Begin

This is Bruce Wayne. He is alone.

They say his father, Dr. Thomas Wayne, was the last trustworthy man of power in Gotham City. Politicians, policemen, the common thug, one could always turn to him to amend any ailment or injury, all without risk of blackmail or debt. The Waynes became a fairly wealthy and popular family because of this. Honesty is the best policy, they'd preach. It was something they championed, even while living in an ever expanding, ever advancing, ever diluted thieves town. Martha Wayne helped fuel her husband's campaign by creating an entire industry under their name, gathering the smartest and honest people to unite under one name of business and commerce and the like. Thus you had Wayne Enterprises, and thus their fortune became endless. With all that wealth, people expected them to grow corrupt; they were natives of Gotham City after all. But their contribution to the city just became more and more expected of them, and even this pressure from the whole of the community, still didn't convince Thomas Wayne from leaving. He felt he had a duty to these people, you see. The funny thing about it is that he thought these people were innately good. "Bruce, one day you'll see that this city is a wonderful place, full of loving and honest people," he told his son one night. "You just have to see for yourself." Well, it didn't take very long for Bruce to see for himself.

Gotham simply didn't deserve them, some would say. It was only tabloid news, the death of his parents. It was shouted from the rooftops for maybe the first week, but then the whole story faded away from most everyone's memory. They didn't seem to care. This city learns to adapt, you see. Anytime the city doesn't get its way, it changes its shape. That way, it may trek forth on its path to inevitable ruin. Of course, it doesn't think ruin is the right word. Paradise sounds better.

The police never found the man or the gun, so they quit. There were a lot of quitters on the GCPD those days. That's how Bruce learned not to trust them, not to care about them. To him, they represented the authority of the world he lived in, and if he couldn't trust the authority, he couldn't trust anybody. Instead, he sealed himself inside the mansion his parents built for him. He wouldn't watch TV—it was corrupt. He wouldn't read the newspaper either, it was corrupt too. And he would never go on the interwebs, for that as we all know is the most corrupt of all. If he wanted to know anything, he'd ask Alfred, his butler. Everyone trusted the Waynes, and the Waynes trusted Alfred, so that was that. Alfred became his teacher, and his only friend.

Of course, they couldn't be kept inside forever. One summer day, Bruce was reading _Great Expectations_ for the fifth time, when Alfred brought a pamphlet along with his rare cooked steak, the master's favorite. "What is this, Alfred?"

"A program, sir, for Gotham State University—you ought to be a high school graduate by now and I think you ought to attend in the fall like you are supposed to."

"Why should I?" demanded the young Wayne, "I don't need a degree, especially one from somewhere as corrupt as Gotham City." (Corrupt had become Bruce's go-to insult by this time)

"Pardon me sir, but this wealth of yours isn't going to last for much longer. Now, your parents insisted that you get an education, specifically from Gotham University, if you are to fully inherit their company."

Bruce was peeved to say the least. He'd grown to be extremely introverted and socially awkward. How could he possibly go to college, if he couldn't even go to high school? Couldn't he just educate himself, like he had done all this time? On the other hand, he couldn't let his parent's company get taken over by some greedy fat pompous pig. As much as he hated the idea, he couldn't turn down the offer.

Gotham State—where all your journeys begin; that's the mantra at least. But the sort of journey, what would that be? That's why the motto fit them so well; the place reeked of obscurity and ambiguity. It looked, smelled, and felt like a ball of clay that could be molded into something great, or something awful. There was nothing distinct about it to say the least—it wasn't ranked very high on anything worth ranking, it sandwiched itself between an insurance firm and an actual sandwich place. The buildings were kept well, but to the point where they hadn't needed to upgrade since the 70's. Class colors were black and white and just a HINT of dark grey. There weren't any rival schools either; rather they kept to themselves except through sports, which the school admittedly wasn't very good at. However, there was always one redeeming and shining quality to the college: Pride.

Pride bled through those brick walls like radioactive ooze. The faculty, staff, and even the students were so full of themselves, that they made going to that school feel like going to the moon. Prestigious was a word tossed about loosely, like it was a matter of fact. Self-consciousness was made to look so foolish, that one could simply NOT feel self-conscious if they tried. One thing was for sure, one could definitely be themselves at Gotham State. There were still your bullies and your gossiping young adults and your quiet ones, but whoever you were you just felt like SOMEBODY in this cesspool of egoism. Bruce for one didn't see the appeal of it. All he thought of it was an obstacle he had to get out of the way. Unfortunately for Bruce, there was no getting around THIS obstacle.

Alfred didn't demand that Bruce stay on campus, but it was mandated. Nobody should commute to the greatest place on earth if you could just stay there! "You'll make more friends that way anyway, Master Bruce," he would say. I could make friends no doubt, he thought, but I could make foes too. He knew if he was ever to run his family's business, he had to interact with people better than he could now. Gotham State could teach him THAT much.

At the very least he needed befriend his new roommate. He stood at his dorm room door, not excited in the least for his first actual confrontation with human life in forever. Bruce hoped that maybe he could've had a single, but to think that was ever a question for GSU was like thinking you could ask a banana to peel itself. Just don't let him be a creep, he prayed. When he finally opened the door, he was greeted to 6 feet of masculinity and pride and self-confidence. Typical GSU student, he surmised. The dude had rich brown hair combed up to one side, bright eyes that made him look eager for a question or an answer, and a stoic grin on his face, like he knew everything about everything. "Bruce Wayne," he started, "I'm Harvey Dent."

Bruce didn't know what to make of Harvey. He certainly seemed like an honest chap, peculiar for a native of Gotham City. But since he'd be living with the man for a while, he figured he may as well not act cold. "You settled in here quickly. . ."

"Oh, I've been here since last year. I'm a sophomore."

"Then why are we rooming together, if we aren't even in the same grade?"

"Beats me!" Harvey laughed, "I really don't care, do you?"

". . .No," Bruce muttered as he threw his luggage on his cot. So much for not being cold.

"Well!" replied Harvey with a newfound sense of resolve, "Why don't I show you around campus?"

"No thanks," replied Bruce, "I already got a tour. Not to mention I have a class soon anyways."

"You haven't had one of MY tours!" Harvey retorted, "C'mon, ya big lug!" With that, Harvey grabbed young Wayne by the wrist and dragged him all about campus. He showed Bruce all the alleyways, shortcuts, and best places to eat, but Bruce still didn't seem to care. "I have a class starting soon, let me go!" Bruce begged over and over again. After an hour Harvey stopped by the campus store and turned to his captive. "Look here man," explained Dent, "If you're gonna act so standoffish, then where you gonna be in life?" By life, he meant GSU, which Bruce couldn't tell was loyalty or brainwash. "I just care about what I came here to do, which was to learn and get a degree in four years," Bruce said frankly.

"Ugh, just stop being so damn depressing, dude!"

"Heheh, he's right you know!" chortled a voice. The two roommates turned to face the chimer, only to have one of those classic cinematic moments where they don't see anything, then the voice grunts 'A-HM-HM' and the camera pans onto a clearly tinier person than whom they expected. The short stature of the unusually well-dressed creature had a girl in each arm. He was literally half the height of both guys and both girls, but he had an air about him that declared, "Yes, I am a legalized midget. I'm still twice the man as you with half the height!" Plus, it was still a fairly warm day for early autumn, and yet he was wearing two black coats with boots and gloves and a big hat like it was the middle of January. Bruce could've sworn he saw fog come out from under the man's long nose as he spoke. "Pardon me, gentlemen," quacked the suave pimp, "I couldn't help but overhear that you two are lacking in the ladies department. Am I wrong?"

"Um...yes," answered Bruce.

"Yes, as in you are lacking in the ladies dep—"

"No, as in yes you are wrong!" snapped Harvey, "We are not lacking in anything, thank you Ozzy."

"I told you to call me Oz, Dent! Cause I'm the wizard at this school, you know that!" Ozzy shook his head and whispered something to the broad on his right, who had to bend way down in order to hear. She giggled, but in a way anybody but Ozzy could tell was fake. Or maybe she just laughed like that. She stood to face the confused look on Bruce and the discouraged look on Harvey and smirked, "It's OK fellas, we know we aren't your type!" The trio laughed in unison as they passed by on their way, consumed by how clever they all were in the encounter.

"I don't like that guy," admitted Harvey. "I don't see what Vicki sees in him besides money."

"Who is he?" Bruce asked. "His name is Oswald Cobblepot," answered Harvey, "and he is the scum of the earth."

Professor Crane was said to be the worst English professor in the school, and not the 'dumb as a doornail' sort of worst, but the 'spawn of Satan' sort of worst. His failure rate was a staggering 92 percent, having never administered an A in his life, because the only papers worth an A would be: his own. "Fair warning, I am a teacher of the unknown," he declared smugly to his classroom of 50 something, which he was betting on to all try dropping out. He snickered to himself about how great a portion of them wouldn't be able to drop out, and the look on their faces when they realize their precious little GPAs will go down the crapper, never to resurface again.

As he scanned the room of his future victims, there was one who caught his eye. Dark, scruffy hair, perfect posture, a small tight frown and eyes, eyes that seemed to peer into your soul and NOT like what they see. At first the professor chocked it up to mere hate, or perhaps pretended bravery in the presence of fear, like all of his students had for him and his class, but there was no hate or courage in this one. It was fortitude. Nothing would shake this individual, or so it seemed. When Professor Crane read off the attendance, he watched for this young man's name. "Bruce Wayne," he called. "Present," the teen replied, firmly, proudly, defiantly, and blunt. Never had Crane loathed a human being so instantly in his 40 years of teaching. Remarkable, he thought, He really doesn't know what he's getting himself into. And what's more, he seems to understand that, and yet out rightly doesn't care. Why, it's either fearlessness or foolishness! Innately, he seemed to bow his head underneath his broad brimmed hat, like he was cowering for a moment. Then his neck shot up straight, and he turned his back to the class as he hastily wrote some nonsense on his chalkboard, swearing under his breath that this Bruce Wayne would never pass his class.

As that was his only class of the day, it didn't take long for Bruce Wayne to notice that he was bored. Some folks don't take notice until maybe the fifth hour of doing absolutely nothing productive, but Bruce was keen on keeping himself occupied. However, instead of resorting to doing anything productive affiliated with GSU—a next to improbable accomplishment—he decided to search outside the iron gates of the establishment. Hours went by as he shuffled up and down the empty streets gazing melancholy at cheap after cheap outlet, until he stumbled upon a gym. To his surprise, he instantly liked this gym, because for once he found something that wasn't trying to be something it wasn't. That, and he'd never really seen one before. Alfred had him convinced that the way to exercise was with push-ups and sit ups, but he never imagined machines that could help you, as silly as that seemed even to him.

In he wandered, and as he stared at the weight machines and the huge roped off ring for the first time, he heard fast breathing and soft thuds in the corner. A girl about his age was going at it on a punching bag. She seemed to be the only one there. The world was turned off for those few minutes, and it was only her and that punching bag, and the swirl of thoughts that fueled her to keep going. Bruce stared at her for a while, not saying a word to break her concentration. He had been there before, that state of being. Her swings ultimately got swifter and heavier until the point when her right fist slowed to a brief stop before it made a final blow on the sandbag, and there the fist rested. She seemed to be aware of his presence by that point, but she kept his eyes off him. Her body straightened, still breathing heavy, and she tilted her head back in satisfaction before asking, "You own this place?"

Bruce fidgeted a little, and croaked, "No. . .do you?" And she paused and threw her head down and smiled, "Hell no."

She finally turned to face him, and Bruce could see how long she had been here. Sweat had settled all over her body, which was at the point that it had no fat to burn, and was only gaining muscle. Her very short chocolate colored hair covered some of her eyes as she smiled more and more, seemingly relieved to see him. "Well what the fuck are you doing here, huh?" she breathed. Bruce was taken aback by the language, but he supposed she was just part of a group that talked that way, and she was brought up rough. She could tell that he was nervous around her too, which she apparently liked very much.

"I've—heh—never been to a place like this before," Bruce admitted. Her eyebrows furrowed, as she started walking towards him, and he inclined to walk back. This raised flags that excited her. "You must live under a rock," she chuckled, "A very expensive rock too."

"How do you know that?" Bruce stammered, starting to realize he was losing his cool.

"I have my ways," she hinted, as he stopped and she circled about him, "I can smell it around you. It's this distinct aroma I've been able to trace my whole life. I don't know what it is, but it just makes me feel. . .euphoric. . ." Then she stopped, and they made eye contact, and for a brief moment Bruce was wondering if she was actually going to kiss a guy she just met. She must've thought that too, because she giggled and walked away towards a locker on the other side of the room. "So who are you supposed to be?" she mused.

"Bruce, it's Bruce," he muttered. He never felt that way before and didn't know what to think of it. He had only read about it.

"You know who owns this place, Bruce?" she asked as she took her drenched tank top off. Bruce was too small a fish out of water to not avert his eyes. "Um—no—I just discovered this place! ...and what, you don't? Who are you?"

"I'm Selina, and no, I don't know whose this is. I stumbled upon it myself just yesterday. I'm going to GSU down the street and I was just looking for something fun to do before the clubs started up. It felt a lot more. . .intimate than at their own gym, you know?" Intimate is an understatement, Bruce thought. "I'm, I'm going to Gotham State too," he replied. She had finished changing her clothes by now. She slipped on a pink leather jacket and Uggs, but instead of leaving she wandered further down a hall into the darkness. The sun had disappeared by this time, but Bruce wasn't dense enough to miss the hint that she wanted him to follow. So, semi-reluctantly, he did.

The two talked for what seemed like forever in a lounge room. It turned out that Selina Kyle wasn't as promiscuous as Bruce was being lead to believe, but that didn't mean she was a virgin either. She had a full honors scholarship to GSU to study Theater and Communications, so she was certainly smart. It occurred to both of them that the gym must've been abandoned, and it wasn't just any gym. Selina explained how it was used to practice mixed martial arts, having plenty of equipment and the whole nine yards with a film of dust thrown in. Gotham city was an ever changing, ever moving entity, so anything could've happen to force the previous owners to abandon the place. "This city is so tough," she brought up after a while of talking, "I think it'd help if the two of us trained here, maybe teach ourselves some fighting skills. Waddya think? Beats buying a gun!" She laughed. Bruce kept quiet, and frowned. He hated guns, the idea of them. They were so cowardly; an infant could use one and just take away somebody's life without realizing the consequences. Selina only didn't buy a gun because of all the trouble of having one. "If I was ever caught with possession of a gun, I'd go straight to jail!" she fumed. "There's such a thing as a right to bear arms, but to arm someone like me? Those cops wouldn't give a fuck; they'd find a reason to cuff me. But, we all gotta defend ourselves somehow, right?"

"I don't know, Selina," Bruce muttered, "I can't stand violence. Besides, it's not me that I'm worried about. It's everyone else." He stood up and got as far as the door.

"Look Brucey," she started. Nobody had ever called him "Brucey" before. "It isn't pretty outside those walls. As cruel as it sounds, you have to fight to not be treated like a bug around here. Honesty is not the best policy." He couldn't handle that thought, so he said his goodbyes and stormed off into the night.

The night is always delightfully, and dismally quiet when it wants to be. It can syke out the most stoic individuals and make them rattled and measly and weak. The underside of Gotham comes out at night, you see, and those who catch themselves inside don't usually come out without at least a few scratches.

Not me, though. It's my weapon, my tool.

I was making my weekly hit on my alma mater when I heard leaves crunching behind me. I took another bite of my Hershey's bar, a favorite of mine to have in my free hand. I had decided to leave a more artistic mark than my usual profanities, because I knew I had more time on my hands. That's the worst thing to give someone like me, time on their hands. I grinned even wider than normal, surprised to hear movement on a night as especially creepy as this one was. I lifted my finger off the spray can head, twitched my head as quick as a woodpecker's, and slowly made my way to face the newcomer. I always made it a point to make up my shabby appearance with a dramatic performance, keeping my observer as high on his toes as possible. Only this boy didn't seem so frightened yet. He was angry instead, his head askew and his eyes looking up at me like he had seen me before. I was on a perch, you see. I'd have to come down to him for him to do anything. Well, I was pretty much done with the portion I was doing, so I decided to stare him down for a bit, eating more of my big Hershey's bar. It went on, and on, and on, and the more it went on the more I ate and ate, until there was no more left, and that's the moment I started squeaking, laughing ever so quietly so not to make any loud noise.

"What are you doing?" the boy grumbled with rage, his fists clenched and his body trembling. He looked like he was going to erupt. Why the whole thing was hilarious! I had to clasp my free hand to my big fat mouth in order to hold back the keels of laughter. I had to kneel down it was too funny! The boy must've really hated that, because he sort of ran up the wall and grabbed my orange sweatpants and dragged me down. Ok, somebody get this kid an agent, because I'm about to pee my pants in joy. He didn't really think that through, you see. Now I was on top of him, with spray paint in one hand and his neck in the other. What a delightful night this was turning out to be! I wanted to ask him so many questions, like who the hell WAS he, and what he thought I should do to him first, since he had so many other great ideas. But he seemed to want to talk first, so I let him.

"Who—are—you?" He wrestled, but it was no use really. I had him totally pinned. Scrawny piece of work he was. Then again, who was I to talk? I really only wore such baggy clothing to cover up what a SKELETON I really was. But I was bigger than him, so that was that. It dawned on me he could only see my mouth, I usually hid the top half of my face under my green cap like a mask, so I decided to give the poor boy some breath as I released my disguise. He wouldn't have recognized me anyway, the green hair and dark circles and all. "Friends call me Joker, 'cause I'm WILD!" I roared, cackling with what my own prideful ego could produce. That shook him up a bit. A bit cheesy I admit, but it makes sense, doesn't it? I panted like a dog waiting for a retort, but got nothing but frightened silence, as usual. So I asked, "You don't look familiar. You freshie?" Brief moment, then, "I'll take that as a yes then." I grew bored of him, he looked like he was going to faint as is, so I gave him one last scare. "Well, from one student of GSU to another, WELCOME. This really is where ALL your journeys—begin!" Whack, out like a cigarette. I decided I'd leave him alone here for the night, nobody would think it was him who vandalized the school again. They all knew it was me. Before I left though, I was tempted to look through his wallet and see who this poor sap was. But at the last second, I decided not to. I had had way too much fun to know who he really was now. Who knows? Perhaps I'd see him again. Maybe he'd treat me to some more fun. I would hate to ruin it knowing who he was, that'd be too much power over him, and then it wouldn't be any fun anymore.

This is Bruce Wayne. He is alone.


	2. Chapter 2 Recoil

Well—didn't see that one coming.

Bruce was stirred from his small coma the next morning by the sky. It was so cloudy and misty that everything was whited out, and nobody could point out where the sun was, but it was there nonetheless, as it was every morning. It's like one of the few guarantees in life, not a very pleasant guarantee though. It was quite pretty and serene for something nobody cared about. That sky, that white sky, is never usually something that is remembered, rather something people want to forget—because they're worried about it raining. People label the sky as blue; they think it's better that way only because it won't rain. What cowards they must be, to be afraid of the rain. There are far worse things to worry about, especially in Gotham. The sky that morning did in fact hold some water, but it didn't bother Bruce. He coveted that first white light he saw after his frightening encounter with The Joker. It awoke him in more ways than one. Going unconscious from something as unexpected as a whack to the head doesn't exactly bring about sweet dreams, so Bruce was glad he was woken up by something both peaceful, and something he couldn't lash out at. The sky was something better than the day. It was the dawn.

He got up slowly, and the gorgeous light was followed by a gigantic red middle finger greeting him. It was sprayed rather crudely on the sandy brick wall of the math center, even overlapping a window. Bruce was stunned from the insult to injury. It encompassed the cruelty of mankind, how they think they can do whatever they want without consequence. This criminal, this clown, had no morality to him. Bruce culminated all his anger and confusion into one focus, trying to not buckle under his rage, "I-I-I'm going to find you," Bruce murmured under his breath, but The Joker's laughter only echoed in his throbbing head. "THIS ISN'T OVER!" Bruce yelled at the wind, which didn't swirl or blow, but was present all the same. Bruce was angry before, but now he was livid. So livid in fact, that he couldn't even speak after that. For all he knew—no, for all he hoped—The Joker had heard him.

You could tell what Bruce was thinking from the look on his face. That's what I liked about him when I first met him; he could be very physically expressive. I was on the computer doing some important club related work when he trudged into the room, limbs swaying, leaves and dirt in his hair, and eyes blackened. Clearly, somebody had quite the rough night. I was concerned when he didn't return to the room last night, but I had so much on my mind that I just crashed on my bed early, so I could wake up early today. Somebody had drawn a smile on his face in sharpie, a large one that went across his mouth, curling about his cheeks—but I don't think he noticed it...yet. "Whoa dude!" I gasped, not sure how to break it to him. "Uh, you—you should take a shower..." He looked at me like he couldn't give a damn about his hygiene today. But without saying a word, he grabbed his towel and shuffled away. A few minutes later, while he was in the shower, I could've sworn he let out a scream. Guess the water got too hot.

"Who is The Joker?" he fired at me as he came walking out of the shower with a towel, still dripping. I turned my head, surprised he mentioned someone as notorious as The Joker so suddenly. Bruce had only just gotten here, and now he already wants the dirt on the menace of GSU? That scumbag had been here for years, some would've thought he'd have graduated by now, but whoever encounters him says he acts like he's still a student here. Absolutely nobody knows his real name, people aren't even sure he remembers it anymore. If Bruce really did run into him, he should consider himself lucky. The Joker was prone to using smoke bombs and flare guns and all sorts of things that have sent scores of students to the ER with burns or illnesses or worse. That's why people rumor how he's a chemistry major, how else could he have become so...fluent...in those chemicals? Then again, he could always be an art major, knowing his countless vandalism to the property. I'm surprised he hadn't killed anybody yet. A twitch in the side of my head went off, like it does when I think about what I don't like, because I certainly did NOT like that freak. He's half the reason I'm pursuing a double in Law and Criminal Justice, people like him don't have the right to breathe the same air the rest of us breathe. The other half, of course, was because of my father—he's the district attorney at the moment.

"Nobody knows, and yet everybody knows," I said frankly, "He's a ghost. Apparently he went or still goes to this school and has some weird vendetta against it. You saw him then? I'm sorry to hear that. Try not to let it get you down so much; you'll get obsessed over nothing." He seemed to not like that at all, and stormed out the room. I just hoped he finished getting dressed.

I looked quickly to see if he wasn't coming back for a few seconds, before I reached for my drawer for the booze I had hidden under there. This plate I've stacked for myself this semester was tough, but nothing I couldn't handle. Max credits, captain of the Cross Country team and track later on, and president of the Sophomore Class, debate club, and Vegas club. That last one is of my own creation; it's like a miniature Las Vegas where students play cards and gamble and embrace the mystery and excitement of chance. I've always loved chance; chance meant opportunity, opportunity meant profit. I still haven't looked into how legal it is though. People love it, so why worry about it? Screw it, Hakuna Matata!

I downed half the bottle without thinking, which was sad. It doesn't even affect me anymore. I used to love it back in high school. That gave me the urge to do some more heroin, hell, I had time before my first class to take it. I never thought I'd be that guy, but so long as I don't flaunt it I don't see the harm in it. I take it outside of campus though, because I'm not stupid. But it's a long walk, and I was too lazy today. I called Gilda, my girlfriend, instead. Talking to her was better than all the heroin I could ever OD on.

Bruce was in fact dressed. He needed food—stat. Sometimes Alfred called him an animal when it came to his appetite. He stormed right to the cafeteria and grabbed all the meat he could fit onto one plate. People stared, some more intently than others. Some girls actually thought it was strangely hot. Then he sat at the most isolated lunch table and started wolfing all of it down. He'd start on one kind of meat, and wouldn't go onto another meat until he had sucked the bones dry of the last one. He didn't notice the girl sitting across from him reading a book, and for a while, neither did she. She sat straight up, elbows planted on the table and her bright red hair tied in a ponytail kept neat and sleek. It wasn't exactly gingery hair either, she had probably dyed it. Her glasses were kept low, so she could read over them because she was near sighted. The dark green eyes still flickered back and forth and were the only things that moved on her otherwise stoic figure of concentration. Was she even breathing?

If one put epic and dramatic fight music on the cafeteria speakers, it would apply perfectly to this self-absorbed pair in the back. One an intellectual and immovable object, and the other a monstrous and unstoppable force, all the while oblivious to each other. Some stared, some were watching—there's a difference. To stare was to look without particularly caring, and could glance away any moment, those who watched couldn't: they had to pay attention, making sure they wouldn't miss out on the hopefully exciting moment when the two players would finally notice each other. Eventually, Bruce's animal noises and heavy breathing sank the book away from the now irritated girl's face and stared at him before he realized she was there. He didn't stop until he was finished, which took a good five minutes more. Any other sensible girl would've got up and walked away in a scoff, had it not been for the smile drawn on Bruce's face. She had seen that art style before, unfortunately.

"So you saw the Joker last night, huh?" she began. Bruce looked up with the glare of a canine, obviously going through a mixture of shock and repulsion and fury. "How do you know that!?" he barked. Her expression remained calm and composed as she confided in him of the battle scar that he failed to wash off in the shower. Bruce just got pale and quiet after that, too pissed off to even act angry. He wasn't suppressing anything, nor was he buckling, just numb to never feeling as helpless as he felt the night his parents were murdered. The girl could tell that he had more revulsion for the Joker than most folks at this school nowadays, and she bravely asked, "Are you hurt?" Bruce hadn't been asked that before, so of course he didn't know what he ought to say back. He just looked down and bluntly grunted "No."

The girl stood and walked away. Bruce was taken aback and confused, with quite the sad look on his face. Those who stared finally glanced away, and those who had been watching in secret got their fix, either feeling really sorry for him, or callously happy that they weren't that guy. Bruce really wished he wasn't that guy, and was starting to vacate his spot when the girl came back with a wet napkin. "Sharpie is hard to get off," she admitted, "I've seen kids who couldn't get this off themselves for a week. The trick is to use rubbing alcohol."

The girl grabbed Bruce by the jaw with him still sitting down, and started the process of erasing Joker's juvenile signature. She started on the left side, and eventually got to the right. Bruce was finally able to see her. She made her best efforts not to look him in the eye, because that would be weird. Those who watched were suddenly engaged again, fawning over how adorable it was. When she was done, she once again sat across from him, keeping full focus on him. Bruce would've thought she'd pick up her book by now, but obviously she wanted to talk. Bruce didn't.

"I know we just met, but I know what you must be thinking. You want the Joker to serve for his actions. What's your name?"

Bruce was silent for a while before he opened up, "Bruce. Bruce Wayne."

"Bruce Wayne. My name is Barbara Gordon, and I want to catch the Joker just like you." Bruce's eyes and face lit up. She knew that would get his attention. "I've been trying to catch him for a while now, since I came to this school last year, and I will confess that he is not someone you can just find," she warned him, "He's been deemed untouchable for years now. The man may be a clown, but he's no fool. Unfortunately, all any of us can do is run into him again and...hope we can catch him."

"I don't understand why he's doing this," Bruce stated, "He has nothing to gain from these crimes. It's like it's his hobby."

"That's just why he's unlike your average psychopath, he has no definable motive," Barbara explained. "If he did, he would be caught by now."

"Even if we did find him, there's still the challenge of subduing him," Bruce argued. "He's too crafty and strong, he's like a toxic gas."

"He's a fart," Barbara quipped. The two stared at each other for a moment before bursting in laughter. "Let me have your number," Barbara requested, "so we can work together on this. How does that sound to you?" It's not what Bruce had expected to find today, but it was better than forgetting about it altogether. The two exchanged numbers, and talked for a while longer, parts of them wishing they didn't have to leave.

Bruce was swimming in his own thoughts when he attended his first class of computer science that day. It was some 101 class that he was taking for gen. eds, like all of the classes on his roster. He still wasn't sure if he was going to declare a major or not, but he thought since he was a freshman, he had time. After all, if he knew what his career was going to be guaranteed, then why stress? He didn't care very much for computer science, but it satisfied what he needed, so that was that.

The other guy at his table though, he seemed interested. Bruce didn't strike up a conversation with the kid though, the kid did it all by himself. "What are you here for?" he asked upfront, leaning towards Bruce while still looking straight ahead. Bruce was instantly put off by this guy, who was he, the teacher? "Come on," the boy urged, "You going to put me up to the test or not?" Bruce REALLY didn't know what the guy was talking about now. What does he mean? Bruce wondered. Does he want me to challenge him or something? The stranger cocked his head in Bruce's direction, and underneath the Jew-fro of dark matter emerged your typical hipster glasses and a stiff upper lip. "You seem like a cool, smart guy. Challenge me, will ya? Let's see who does better on the assignments, and whoever gets the most wins. Agreed?" This kid didn't mess around; he maintained full eye contact with Bruce. Actually, he didn't even seem to blink. Bruce was what one may call the strong and silent type. He almost never blinked. It became a staring contest Bruce wasn't even playing, but after a solid minute and a half he had won. The boy showed clear discouragement, but then regained focus on Bruce before Bruce finally gave up.

"Bruce Wayne," he spoke with an outstretched hand, as an acceptance to the so-called challenge.

"Eddie," the boy answered, clearly satisfied.

After that odd encounter and the rest of his classes, Bruce wandered back to the MMA gym where he met Selina Kyle. Sure enough, he found her, working on the same punching bag, in the same clothes oddly. She was quicker to acknowledge him this time, but not as happy to see him as she was last time. "What's up, Brucie?" she panted as she leaned on the bag. "I want to accept your offer if it's still on the table," he said. "I met someone last night, someone who confirmed everything I was afraid of was real. I need to beat him, and to do that I need to become stronger. Will you help me?"

Selina lit up the whole room. "We'll help each other!" she cried. "Who is this threat you're talking about Bruce?"

"He calls himself The Joker." He responded, wincing at the idea. How juvenile would you have to be to label yourself something like that? Selina's expression didn't change. "I've heard about him," she said, "About his vandalism and assault, and even rumors about arson. He's as bad as bad gets in this area! Likes sweet things too," she added nonchalantly. She paused, and saw Bruce was stunned at how much she knew. "Internet," she replied. "You should try it sometime."

The two started training that night. Selina had found a whole stack of books and videos that could teach them about mixed martial arts. Bruce sorted through the supply of gear that suited him and Selina, from gloves to head gear to some practice armor.

They were about to get started before they heard a tap on the glass outside. Being the evening by now, they turned in a slight panic, but it was just some chick in a mini-skirt wanting to come in. In fact, Bruce thought she looked familiar to one of the girls he met the other day. Selina went to the door and opened it, "Yea what the fuck do you want?" she growled. The girl was unfazed by the tone, and bent her neck to see inside the gym, where she could see Bruce without a shirt on. "Message for Bruce Wayne," she sang, smacking gum in her cheeks, but still friendly enough. "He's busy right now, go away!" Selina barked as she slammed the glass door in the girl's face. As the catty Selina marched away the visitor didn't hesitate to walk inside anyway. "I just had a message for Brucie from Oz, he wants you to come to his office right away!" Selina seemed to have veins growing out from her temple as Bruce beckoned over to the intruder who called him by HER nickname. "What does he want me for? I'm in the middle of something," Bruce answered respectfully. "Is it possible if I could see him tomorrow? I don't have a class 'till the afternoon." The girl twirled her big blonde hair and rocked her head this way and that like an utter ditz before piping, "He wouldn't like that, but...I suppose that's a fair _cahmpramice_!" She turned right around and back out the door she went. It was impossible for Bruce not to observe her figure, to put it politely. After a menacing glare from the training partner and a shrug from the clueless alpha-male, they continued their first training all through the night.

Bruce was still an insomniac, but in the one hour he managed to sleep in his dorm room bed, he still had nightmares.

He woke to Harvey slamming the door behind him as he hurried to his 8am class. Bruce barely finished getting dressed before getting a knock on his door. The same blonde girl had found him again. "You know I still don't exactly know your name, mystery woman," Bruce mused drowsily. "Vale," she mused back. "Vicki Vale. Pleased to meet you," she winked, "Now come with me, the Wizard will see you now!"

Ozzy kept his room cold. He was one of those optimists that called being cold, "refreshing." The six or seven women that kept him company had gotten used to it, even with the mini-skirts they all wore. Bruce had only a tee-shirt and sweats on, so his body naturally crumpled to keep itself from going into shock. He was offered a sprite that was more ice than sprite. The color scheme of Ozzy's spacious quarters was deemed very spirited to the school: black white and grey. Party music was played quietly, in a dull roar, and had this beat that drugged the inhabitants to unconsciously bounce to, so everybody but Bruce lived with feet flicking and heads nodding and hips twitching without even thinking it. The couches were very soft—but ice cubes nonetheless—and as soon as Bruce plopped on, two of Ozzy's girls plopped beside him on his left and his right. Vicki perched herself on Ozzy's right as he sat across from Bruce in a big armchair, which was so big that his feet couldn't touch the floor.

Knowing that Bruce had come on HIS whim, Ozzy took his sweet time before addressing his guest. "You know why I met you yesterday?" he smirked. Bruce returned the favor by taking HIS sweet time answering, before uttering a low, "No."

"It's because you have something I don't," Ozzy said with an air of content, "You're pretty handsome, Bruce Wayne." Bruce did not expect that to come out of the vapid mouth of Oswald Cobblepot. In fact he was surprised no one else was surprised. He exchanged looks with the two girls across from him, who gazed at him with puppy dog eyes, and then faced the two girls on either side of him, who did the same only at point blank range. If Bruce didn't have the shivers already, he did now. "W-What is this all about, Oz?" he asked. The girls seemed to think his voice was a shockwave, because they all seemed to take pleasure in him talking. Bruce didn't understand, was his voice hypnotic or something? Ozzy seemed to notice it too, and he only relished in his discovery more. "You see, Bruce? These women, they can't get enough of you! You're attractive, smart, RICH, and stupidly ignorant. I love it when perfect specimens like you show up, it rings in a new generation and puts the minds of seniors like me at ease, because I can trust that our operations will live on and be enjoyed by students of GSU for years to come." Bruce wasn't sure what "The Wizard" meant, but he was weary of the business that was surfacing around him. "T-thank you for that, I guess, but I'm still not sure what you mean."

Ozzy quacked and waved his hand for another cigarette. "Well I was hoping you could join a little club I've been heading. It's a sort of host club, where men at GSU court women at GSU. You'd be a very powerful member, have women fond over you every day, and your time here will be very...luxurious...Ooh! I love this song!"

It was different from the songs that were playing before, and this one was turned up so everybody could hear it. It was Goldfinger, that opening song from the James Bond movie. Truly no song could've illustrated the moment better. Ozzy nerdgasmed for a brief moment, crying, "I love James Bond! He's my idol. This is my favorite movie, but, Roger Moore is the best Bond by far. He had the balls to go to space for Christ's sake!" The girls laughed, quite convincingly too.

Anybody in Gotham would've taken that offer, and be proceeded to be kissed by several women at the same time. Bruce was not so rash. Somehow it all seemed like a trick. Something was off about Ozzy that Bruce wished he could figure out. "And what will you do if I don't?" Bruce asked. The room fell quiet excluding the music, which still blared loudly. They stared, with a mix of disappointment and confusion on their faces, not even anger. They seemed to slowly grow sadder and sadder as the song rang its last note. Ozzy took that moment to reply. "That'd be very disheartening, Bruce. We'd sure miss you here. I thought we were having a great time with you here, weren't we girls?" They chimed in unison, "Yes! Yes! We'd miss you! You've been so much fun!"

What are they talking about? Bruce wondered. Why was he entertaining to these people? What was he doing that made them like him? Did he even have to try? What was Oswald up to? Whatever he was doing, he was sure making it easy for Bruce to find out. Alfred did say he needed to make friends. They seemed to all be hinging on an answer. As much of a man he'd be if he walked away, he'd be a coward if he didn't. "Count me in," he submitted. The girls threw their arms over him and kissed him all over. Bruce didn't fully comply however. He kept his eyes on Ozzy, who quacked in delight, fully aware that Bruce was not fully on board...yet.

What a day, what a day. I won again in Vegas club, I got an A on my quiz in my court class, and I just bought a whole case of vodka. Budweiser is just water to me now, but I've heard vodka is a lot stronger. I'll need it if I was to do well at the meet tomorrow; I'm looking forward to beating my P.R. I found the door to the dorm unlocked and thought Bruce was back from his meeting with Ozzy. What a delightful surprise that I find Gilda the girlfriend sitting on my bed! Doesn't that have a nice ring to it? She seemed very upset, which was very unlike her. Did she not enjoy the sex we've been having? Was she gonna break up with me if I don't perform well tonight? "Aw babe, what's wrong? Did you fail that biology lab?"

"Harvey you dumbass!" she cried, "I'm pregnant!"

Well—didn't see that one coming.


	3. Chapter 3 The Struggle is Real

I don't lose. I'm simply cheated.

A few weeks into the semester were plenty for our computer science professor to administer the first quiz. I just did what I always did; studied for hours, worked out every possibility, and came in fully prepared. The questions were not hard...for the most part. The material of a quiz is actually quite hard to convey to another person not in the class, so I don't find it worth my mental strength to note what was on that quiz. I make it a point to not put things to memory unless they are of vital importance. If it's worth memorizing, then it's worth looking up. The internet did not blossom and grow into what it is today if it weren't for the people who use it, who rely on it.

A ninety-five on the first quiz; a solid performance, and I presumed it was the highest in the class. I leaned back in my chair into the soft embrace of my superior ego, when I caught a glimpse of what I didn't expect. A small black ninety-seven on the paper my associate Bruce was holding. I first thought it was my glasses—I seldom clean them—so I leaned forwards towards the anomaly to bear witness to what my eyes were clearly deceiving me of. Once I did however, the eyes and the glasses were off the hook: the ninety-seven was real! A ninety-seven? Two points? What could Bruce have possibly done that earned him two more points than me? Casually I slipped him an innocent question, "So how did YOU do, Bruce?"

"I got a 97. Not a big deal," he replied humbly, "How about yourself?" That was out of respect, not curiosity, that uncaring brick. "Oh, I got a 95. No big deal, haha," I smiled. That was painful; of course it was a big deal!

I find myself on the lower rung once in a blue moon. I was the valedictorian of my class. I was accepted to every college I applied for. I'm only going to GSU so I don't accumulate debt, of which I will have none. I am an Eagle Scout and a black belt. I've never been handed an F, and never have I felt a trophy for simply trying my best. If I wanted something, I would get it myself. I became hooked on winning. At first I blamed my parents because they always pushed me, but soon I was doing it all on my own. They never worried or held me back—addicted to winning is better than being addicted to drugs or sex, right? In terms of competition, yes I do seek it, except if it's a race. Races are pointless—if an achievement is attained, who cares who did it first? Time is relevant after all. I'm not sure what I love about winning anymore, whether it's the personal satisfaction, or the sadness on those people's faces. I believe the Germans called it 'Schadenfreude.'

Winning became such a necessity to me that I resolved to solving puzzles. Puzzles are challenges, and challenges always carry the possibility to be beaten, to win. The best part about them is that there is no losing: there is only trying harder. I resolve to take what has the least risk if all I want to do is win, let alone have fun. When I take risks that is when I have the most fun.

It didn't make me feel so good when I saw myself not at number one. In fact it makes be unbelievably sick. I get a stomach ache, a migraine, and explosive diarrhea at the same time. It's as bad as it sounds. The harder I lose, the worse the symptoms are. It's very chronic. It felt like a brain freeze when Bruce had confided in me his victory over me.

As one can imagine, number one was MY thing. And it was beginning to be more and more absent in my college career. It was, to say the least, unsettling. I needed my fix. Puzzles weren't doing it for me anymore; it was getting harder and harder to find puzzles I hadn't already solved. I needed something to win. Thankfully, I found a club at this crummy school that could help me with just that. They call themselves G.A.M.E.R: Gotham Attempts Making Entertainment Righteous. You can tell they neither had good naming abilities back in the 1980's, nor the insight to ever bother changing it for thirty years. All they did was play video games, all of which are too easy to lose at, but somehow those people found a way. They were easy pickings to be sure, but I needed more than just them to prey on. What better way to ease my loss to another competitor by beating him at something else? This Bruce Wayne character didn't seem to play video games; he was always hanging around girls and working out and studying and acting dark and mysterious. What a loser! What a target! I waited until class was over when I asked him.

"Say Bruce, good job on that quiz there. I have an idea! Do you wanna come with me to G.A.M.E.R tonight? It's this super cool club that plays video games!" Bruce's face didn't change, he was thinking it over. He wasn't suspicious of anything was he? Always with that super serious face, why so serious? I didn't take my eyes off him until he grinned and sang, "Sure. Where is it?" I told him the location and time as we got up and got our coats on, and soon we parted ways. My lips spread wide to show the world my teeth, my pearly and almost shark-like teeth, and I let out a snicker. It was a rare moment when I was having fun before the competition had even begun.

Lisa and Tiff were waiting for Bruce outside of his classroom. All the girls at the host club had his schedule, so he was relieved to have just those two today. He didn't make a misstep as he put his arms around each of their waists as they strolled to his next class. Bruce liked Tiff, she seemed at least interested in him, asking him questions and laughing at whatever he said with wide eyes. Lisa on the other hand, she was a nice girl, but she was more quiet than most of the girls. Perhaps she was the girl equivalent of the strong silent type. Bruce was totally new to this whole courting thing, but she was very helpful with the transition. She had a nice smile too. Bruce was satisfied with his foot in the door when it came to social interaction. The best part about all of it was probably the freedom he retained. Ozzy surprisingly kept his distance from everybody, so Bruce could still practice at the gym and focus on what he wanted, but that wouldn't stop Bruce from keeping a cautious eye on him. For now, he enjoyed his time with these wonderfully nice girls.

No matter how wonderful those girls made him feel however, they couldn't soften the fall into the twelfth ring of hell that was Professor Crane's class. There were only thirteen of them left. More than forty people dropped out. How that was even possible was easy: they made an exception to the drop rate especially for Crane. The school didn't want all those precious GPAs to slip. For those who were left, they were either too late or too stupid. Crane called his Monday/Wednesday class his 'lucky 13.' It was to help them to further understand the literary elements of irony and sarcasm. What a clever son of a bitch. Crane's curriculum was one of the most colorful and deceptive study plans in the country. The man really didn't want people to pass his class. He didn't even hide his devilry under a façade either, like one of those awful teachers that seem nice and happy on the surface, but are actually witches that probably danced naked in the woods and cursed people in another life. Crane held nothing back, and he made a public display of disproval to everybody in his class, especially Bruce for some reason. Whenever he'd make a frightening assertion, he'd glare at Bruce; as if he was the one Crane was trying to scare first.

The lucky thirteen found themselves smack dab in a two month focus on poetry, and not even good poetry or famous poetry. It was poetry they never heard of, and would ever hear again. The limericks were so cryptic; they had a hard time believing that these authors weren't just a pen name that Crane made up when he invented these ridiculous poems. What is this guy's deal? Bruce echoed throughout his head, like he did every day since he stepped foot in this lunatic's padded room. Crane had also instructed them to not talk to each other, "You will grow attached to each other, and that would be unproductive! The last thing we need in this classroom is a HIVE MIND!" Crane snarled.

"Oh yea," Bruce piped up that day. "Because great minds don't think alike, do they?" A girl in the front cracked up a bit, and that earned her one of Crane's signature death stares. Crane knew he couldn't smack this girl because this was a school—he couldn't even touch her—and there was no way he'd give them a detention, one part because he'd have no basis for justly administering one, and partly because he most definitely did not want to spend any more time with these insects more than he had to. So all he could try to do is inflict as much pain on her in an instant without touching her. The way he did that was his death stare. The best comparison is to Lady Tremaine's death stare from Cinderella, only he would overact it. He would come within inches to the student's face, scrunch his nose, and grumbled low and loud. It would've been a pretty funny face if it weren't for the eyes. The eyes promised a thousand F's and eternal damnation, even though they could never guarantee those things. If you never peed your pants in fear, you deserve a medal if you don't so much as tinkle from being exposed to Crane's death scare.

That was Bruce's Mondays and Wednesdays in a nutshell because that was a three hour class. What school constructs a three hour English class? Otherwise he didn't do very much apart from eat, work out, study, and pleasure women. The farthest he went with any of them however was first base: making out only. Anything more would make it too personal, which was not the name of the game at GSU's host club. Bruce was glad; he didn't want it to be personal. That would just hurt all those girls' feelings when he admitted to them how little he cared for them that way. He wanted to avoid that drama if could.

The training with Selina had been going alright enough. They were eating through all their learning materials, and they weren't certain if what they learned would be enough to do any good. They scheduled a face-off for each other at the end of the month for a test. Selina teased him all the time about how badly he'd lose to her, and it was starting to get to Bruce. If he couldn't beat Selina, how could he ever expect to beat The Joker? Was that wrong of him to think? It was stressing Bruce out more than it had to.

For now, he needed a distraction. Bruce needed something not just to comfort him or lash out on, but to be stimulated by. That's why he accepted my invitation to GAMER. Video games, at least his impression of them, called for concentration, problem solving, and perseverance. He had never played one; he once thought they were a waste of his time. Now, he didn't see the harm in trying his hand at them. What a newbie, I was getting worried that this wouldn't even be a challenge.

The club met in a classroom that was so estranged from the other classrooms that it was abandoned. It happened such a long time ago that nobody knows exactly why. Some senior club members claim it used to smell like rat poison and the professor that taught in that room for the semester died of a fungal infection. Somehow, people still flocked to G.A.M.E.R despite all these foreboding rumors. Having a room all to themselves left the members to decorate however they wanted. There were posters that covered every inch of the walls. The shelves that looped around the room were littered with books, game cases, and many computers and TV's, some of which didn't even work from the holes that were punched into them. This club was formed quite a while ago, so N64s, PS1s, and even an old Atari were all collecting dust. A projector was set up so everyone could play on a big screen in the front. There were also a lot of clothes thrown all over the floor. Were there folks that never even left this room?

I arrived first, not that it mattered. I quickly scanned the room for something to win, something to beat Bruce Wayne at. Cards? Too predictable. Street Fighter? Too sporadic. Call of Duty? Too mundane. Really there didn't seem to be much variety until I saw the fast-paced, colorful, violent, heart-racing game they call Smash Brothers. These days it was almost impossible to come across a young adult this generation who hadn't played or even heard of this unique beat-em-up, but I was familiar with one such individual. Bruce had told me that he had never even picked up a controller, so he had no hand eye coordination to speak of. This game, of all other games, required such precision. Perfect.

The trio of the evening stepped in with an air of confusion and bewilderment, as if they were too important to be caught dead in this shrine of nerds and geeks. I say trio because Bruce had brought two broads with him. On his left was a pretty blonde girl in jeans and a white tank top, and on his left a brunette in a skirt and black sports jacket. The blonde was named Candice, and the brunette was named Christie. Bruce brought the two of them along because they "also liked to play video games." Yea right.

"Nice place you got here, Ed," Bruce quipped, as if I owned the placed. Candice and Christie's heads shook like bobble heads as the three of them took seats on the desk next to the Mega Man poster.

"Glad you could make it," I said, "I was thinking we could play some Smash Bros, you ever played that game before?" The girls giggled as Bruce laughed and scratched his head the way most guys do to say "no."

"I've heard of it, but I've never played it before," laughed Bruce, innocent as a newborn puppy. A puppy about to get slaughtered! "But I'd be happy if you taught me."

What an idiot, he had no idea the virtual ass-kicking he was about to receive. "Why of course I would."

There we were, on the character screen. We were playing on the Brawl variety, though I for one was better trained in the Melee version. Candice and Christie wanted to play too, so it was the four of us on a TV in the corner, while the rest of the club members present spent their time chortling and honking at their own humor in a frivolous game of Cards against Humanity. I selected Fox, clearly the best character. Bruce chose Captain Falcon, such a fool. Candice chose Sheik, typical and moronic choice that it was, and Christie chose Princess Peach: by far the worst and laughably stupid of characters. It was decided to be a free for all, five stock, no item match on Final Destination, most definitely the best and only way to play this game. Any other way is simply a waste of time.

We started with an exhibition match on the Battlefield stage. Bruce was clueless in the ways of the game, and was mashing the A button on his Wii remote and swinging them around, acting like a total klutz. The girls found it completely charming, and I wondered, "Is acting this way really all it took to pleasure this gender?" It took all of my patience and nerve to calm the lunatic down and explain the rules. "You don't have to swing the remotes around, it doesn't work like that," I spat, "All you have to do is move with this stick, attack with this or this button, jump with this, and use your shield with this. Don't fall off the platform; try to blast others off the platform." Bruce tried to jump from the ground level to a floating platform above. He discovered he could jump twice, and gasped in delight. I rolled my eyes as I as Fox bicycle kicked him in the face. He blasted off faster than Team Rocket.

Meanwhile the girls were running back and forth as Peach and Sheik parrying each other. They weren't half bad, perhaps they had played each other before. However neither of them were using dodges or special attacks, and both had terrible recovery times. I had this in the bag. I began to wonder if I should even work myself too much over this. I was solo-ing a bunch of noobs, why should I try so hard? Yes, that might make it more fun. I would win without even trying. The three amigos seemed to be having a ball, as Bruce was being volleyed back and forth by his comrades. Soon the exhibition match was over: I had come in first, Candice in second, Christie in third, and Bruce in dead last. Practice was done—let the game begin!

The best way I can describe this scene is with Guile's theme; it goes with everything after all. It's difficult to illustrate precisely what happened in a game of Smash Brothers, the fighting is fierce and the adrenaline is in full force, so nobody has time to pay enough attention to recreate it. I first focused on Bruce, but the moment I did the other girls would get in my way and fend me off. I kept getting good hits on him, but at the cost of getting hit good from the girls. How pathetic, these girls were fending me off? I managed to knock out one life on all of them, but no sooner did I do that did I get smacked in the face with a frying pan from Peach and was sent flying. All of us were one down. No problem, I'd just have to keep up the pattern like this and I'd win in no time.

Bruce tried fighting back. He was mashing the buttons like a nervous tick. He seemed to still be having some fun, and I didn't like it. I had to make him straight up lose. He wouldn't be happy after that. I kept pushing. I wouldn't even focus on the girls, I could take care of them later. I couldn't just be first, Bruce had to be last. The girls wouldn't ease up on me though. They had Bruce stay on the far right of the stage while they kept me on the far left. I managed to knock Shiek out, and finally found an opening to smash Bruce, who flailed in dismay as he didn't even try to recover himself. He was infallibly weak. That hit cost me however, his "guards" soon sent me flying upwards and out of sight.

This wasn't going well for me. Three on one is a bad situation no matter who is playing this game. Most of the time you can escape the fray and let the remaining players weaken themselves before you go in for the kill. Here however, they made sure they would only gunning for me, and only on some occasion would they hit each other, since it was still a free for all. I considered pausing and calling them out on it, but I felt that would be a sign of weakness. On I fought, alone, like all the other times in my life. Nobody helped me to get where I was, and I didn't need them. Help, support, friends, I could live without them—and here is where I'd prove it.

I kept fighting the troublesome trio until one of them, Candice as Sheik, was defeated and knocked out of the game. By this time, I had three lives, Bruce had two lives, and Christie had one. It was here that things began to turn for the worst. I managed to side step Peach and come straight after Captain Falcon, smashing him with a rolling kick. Off he flew, but not too much since he had low damage. Suddenly, he jumped toward the stage and used his Falcon uppercut—a special move I had never seen or thought he could use—and caught the ledge. He had saved himself! The girls cheered as Bruce sprung from the edge and kneed me in the face. "Gotcha!" he cried. Lucky shot, it sent me across the stage, but I could still recover myself. I used my Fire Fox to propel myself onto the ledge, but out of nowhere, SMACK! A crown smash from Princess Peach, I was down to two lives!

No, this wasn't what I was planning at all, I couldn't be tied with Bruce. My head started to throb and my stomach grumbled. I would not lose to these punks! I focused my sight on that pompous, pretty princess, as I juggled her in the air until she was no more. I took about 20% damage in the process. Now it was just me and Bruce. 20% vs 5%. I could win this. "Bring it on!" Bruce cried.

"You go get'im, Bruce baby!" cheered Christie.

"Kick his furry ass!" chimed Candice.

No matter the praise, the outcome would be the same. I would win no matter what. On we fought, and it was at 35% vs 40% that I tried another rolling kick and Bruce suddenly rolled out of the way of it, and then elbowed me in the backside. What? How did he know how to dodge? He must've figured it out. Now he was dodging all my attacks. I had to step up my game. We continued to parry each other, and now he was spamming his Falcon rave and Falcon kick. Soon the two of us were over 100% damage, and I was trying to hit him with one last smash attack, when out of nowhere he grabbed me. Bruce must've done it accidently and now was trying to find a way to let me go. He kneed me twice, and threw me backwards, relieved to be rid of me. I flew faster than I anticipated, and I found myself too far away from the ledge. He got me by a fluke. His fans leapt for joy and Bruce smirked. I was about to write it off as a lucky shot, but then it happened.

Captain Falcon twisted, shot out his arm, and yelled, "COME ON!" with his hand urging me on like Bruce Lee. A taunt: I had never showed him those buttons. He was supposed to have no idea how to do that! There was no way he could've pushed that button by mistake either; there was only one explanation.

"No way," I murmured awestruck. I slowly turned my head, and I found him staring at me, eyebrow cocked and teeth flashing. In return, I roared. Not a low roar, and nothing tangible, just incoherent screams as I jumped towards him as Fox and continued the fight. I juggled him, caught him, threw him, shot him, kicked him, grabbed him again, and beat the living snot out of him, shouting as I did. The other club members heard me, and crept over in silence to watch the slaughter. Bruce kept up the fight too, kicking and tackling me as we moved this way and that until I was at 100% and he was at 200%. I finished him off with a bicycle kick, and he exploded in a flash of light. "YES!" I shrieked as I laughed in delight. I even made Fox do a taunt of his own: a vulnerable stance as he yelled, "COME ON!" I was so caught up in the euphoria that I didn't even notice my opponent float down from his spawn point. Suddenly I hear the infamous cry of Captain Falcon's signature move. It almost never hit, and when it did it almost guaranteed a KO. I was stuck in my taunt, I couldn't get away!

"FALCON, PAWNCH!" A sonic boom and the image of a fiery falcon as his fist hit me dead on. Game over. The room exploded in cheers and oohs and Ohs. I was pwnd. I ran out of the room before I would shit my pants. I stumbled to the bathroom, head swimming from the bright lights, my stomach feeling like I swallowed a stick of dynamite. I never saw Bruce until the next class, where he would act like it had never happened. I never went back to that room, I was forever known as that one kid who lost so hard in Smash Brothers that he shit his pants.

I don't lose, I'm simply cheated.


End file.
